


Somewhere Only We Know

by Other_Pens



Category: The London Life (Roleplaying Game)
Genre: (implied) - Freeform, Beach Sex, F/M, Nudity, Outdoor Sex, Regency, Regency Romance, Skinny Dipping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-06
Updated: 2016-09-06
Packaged: 2018-08-13 11:05:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7974544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Other_Pens/pseuds/Other_Pens
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Response to prompt for "Dominic, public nudity, for any reason but must be during LL times."</p><p>You dirty birds.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Somewhere Only We Know

_1801_  
  
Dominic felt about as much familial affection for his father as any young man might who had been generally left to his own devices and the care of servants. George Hissop's true child was his business, and Dominic was a means, a tool to be used in carrying on that great enterprise.  
  
Thus the young man had nodded absently throughout his father's interminable lectures on this that and other points of so-called 'interest' in the plantation, duty bending his head over a book of figures and clerk scrawls that made him squint as the sweat trickled down the back of his neck, soaking into the starched collar and cravat that made him itch and stifle.  
  
Some item of urgency had come about, like a miracle, which George found would be best dealt with speedily and alone, leaving his son to the dim humidity of the office.  
  
George's steps had scarcely faded from hearing before Dominic was on his feet, slamming the ledger shut.  
  
He slipped down the servant's staircase and through the tangle of the kitchen garden, covering the bare earth paths with long strides, plucking at the knot in his cravat as he went.  
  
Jacket, waistcoat and shirt followed, and by the time he came to the sand he held a bundle of clothing in his arms. He deposited his shoes, stockings and breeches with them. As it was still early in the day, the plantation labourers would all be at their work, and even then, the narrow and twisted path leading to the small cove was not well-known, and so the beach was his, alone. It was the only place he cared for, really. When quality company was lacking, what else was there but to prefer solitude?  
  
The surf foamed against the shore, and the sun-warmed water felt like a bath as Dominic walked into the waves, the current tugging at him like an eager lover. There, too, he found himself frustrated. He'd been sating himself with servants and hard-handed girls from the villages where and when he could, since he'd been a boy. Now their worn-out jests and inelegant offerings irritated him, and he felt something very like disgust when he had finished...and not all of it was for them.  
  
Dominic let himself brood on the multitude of ways in which his life did not satisfy him as he felt it ought, ducking his head beneath the water and diving beneath the waves, swimming with long strokes until he broke the surface further out, tossing the wet hair from his eyes with an impatient shake of his head, the dark twist of ribbon that had secured his queue lost to the tide.  
  
Seawater and bright sunlight blurred his vision, but as he blinked back towards the shore he spied a figure bent over the spot where he'd left his clothes, rummaging, no doubt in the hopes that the gentleman had some coin about him. Not that Dominic did, but he had a gold watch that had been a gift from his father, no matter how little he actually bothered to glance at it during the day.  
  
With a shout of protest, Dominic swam hard back for the shore, letting the surf roll him closer to the sand until his feet found the bottom and he pushed himself forward, giving chase as the guttersnipe seemed to be making off with everything but his shoes--which was something of an oddity, as surely they'd fetch a price as any good leather and buckles might.  
  
"You there!" he bellowed. The girl stopped and turned back, a barefooted figure in faded brown print, but she was smiling, and apparently in no fear of reprisals. Dominic stopped dead in his sandy tracks and let out a groan. "...Isabel? Isabel--you heathen wretch. Give me my clothes."  
  
"Shan't," she said, grinning. "I keep what I find, and you'll be more careful next time."  
  
"Have you no sense of modesty, girl?" he asked, stepping nearer.  
  
"Have you?" she laughed. Timid, skinny little Isabel, always underfoot at the worse possible moment. Dominic took quick stock of the girl in the plain old dress she had already outgrown, lithe limbs and strange new soft curves beneath taut fabric, the gloss of warm, perspiring skin only half-concealed by the kerchief tucked haphazardly into her decolletage. Timid and skinny no more, it seemed--she had to be, what, sixteen, now? "...seventeen," she said slyly, reading the question in his glance.  
  
"You're a witch, Bel."  
  
"Only because I can smell your lies."  
  
"Smell them?"  
  
"Lies have a smell. Faint, they are, and different for every person, but you can't forget them."  
  
Dominic drew close, now, and made a grab for his clothes, but Isabel whisked them out of his reach. Her hands were small, but capable, and looked strangely soft. Her work was light, and indoors--genteel mending, mostly.  
  
"Bel!" He glared at her, before giving up in the attempt. "Fine. That's just fine. But you've forgotten something..."  
  
"What?" she asked, smugness personified.  
  
"I'm in _trade_ ," he retorted, helping himself to her kerchief with a single grab. Without a hand free, Isabel could only let out a cry of surprise. Dominic stepped back, surveying his handiwork with pleasure. "Now, you have everything but my shoes, but as you're barefoot just now I think we can leave those out of our deal...but as it stands I believe it's fair to say that you now owe me..." He tilted his head back, narrowing his gaze as he stared upwards at the sky as thought calculating difficult numbers, before he dropped his eyes back to hers with the sum of his demands: "Every stitch you have on."  
  
"And then?"  
  
"And then what?"  
  
Isabel raised an eyebrow, her swift downward glance taking in the obvious evidence that young Mr. Hissop hardly seemed inclined to keep things strictly business.  
  
"What will I get?" she asked, her voice growing softer, and very nearly serious.  
  
Dominic closed the distance between them and took hold of her chin with one hand, tipping her face up to his. Brown eyes searched grey, and they understood each other a little more, then. They understood each other enough.  
  
"Anything you want," he said, bending to take her lips with a kiss that savoured of sea-water. Isabel smiled, then, loosing her hold on the bundle of clothes as Dominic's hands pressed with heavy impatience against her hips, hotter than the afternoon sun through the thin muslin.  
  
"Lies, Mr. Hissop...I can taste them, too," she murmured, but she smiled still, and did nothing to stop him.


End file.
